


Down a Long, Dark Road

by martinfreefan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 21:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6059487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martinfreefan/pseuds/martinfreefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John travel from London to the countryside of Louth, Lincolnshire for Harry's funeral. John revisits the time spent with Harry in this town during his formative years and comes face to face with his grief. He becomes more vulnerable with Sherlock through the process and allows himself to act on urges suppressed for years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road to Louth

Sherlock jolted awake as John swerved to narrowly avoid a pothole about twenty minutes south of Louth, Lincolnshire. Clouds hung low in the sky, heavy and limp like blue-grey canvas circus tents on the late December afternoon. Half past four and the world was already steeped in the blue haze of twilight. Sherlock sighed a long, dramatic sigh and gingerly touched his fingertips to the temple that John so carelessly rammed into the passenger side door frame. 

“Sorry,” John mumbled, dazed after having spent roughly an hour alone with his thoughts while Sherlock slept. 

“No, no, it’s fine, in fact I implore you to repeatedly punish both of our livelihoods against the sodding doorframe,” Sherlock replied with a sharp impetuousness that only the greatest mind of a generation could muster after a nap. 

“Blame the tax payers,” John gripped the steering wheel and squinted into the blue fog ahead of him. "These roads are in desperate need of re-gravelling.”

The purpose of their trip hung like a noose between them. The funeral was scheduled for next day at noon, St. James’ church, in the town where John spent his most formative years. On the drive to Louth, his mind wandered back to last Thursday, when he received the call from Clara. _She’s gone, John,_ she repeated over and again, wet sobs coming through as static on the other end of the telephone line. A mixture of Johnny Walker and anxiolytics, evidenced by the empty bottles strewn across the bedroom floor of Harry’s Brixton flat. _Oh God, she’s really gone._

“We’ve been on the road for nearly three hours and we’ve yet to stop for food,” Sherlock said, furrowing his fingers into his hair on the right side, resting his elbow on the contour of the car window. “A record by your voracious standards.”

John heard the explicit observation as well as the implicit encouragement to stop for food soon. It was true, he hadn’t been looking after himself as he should for the past week; many meals consisted of nibbling at days-old takeaway. Mrs. Hudson popped up every now and then with a sympathy casserole, which John accepted graciously and stowed in the freezer, unable to stomach the smell. John thought about returning to his therapist for a top-up, but grimaced at the thought of what he knew she would say. _This is your M.O. when things go wrong, John. You need to eat._ He waved the image of her away; so dramatic. No need for that yet. Besides, with her it was only a matter of time until the topic turned to sexual orientation, which was as unnecessary as it was annoying.

“I’ll keep a lookout for a cafe once we get closer. There used to be one on South Street right on the verge of town. I wonder if it’s still there. Harry and I used to ride our bikes there as kids for lemon ices in the summer.”

“Yes, fascinating,” Sherlock said as he turned the volume dial up on a homemade recording of Bach partitas he brought along for the trip. 

Just as well, John thought. No use carrying on like that, especially before stopping in for a meal. He needed a clear head. The road switched from gravel to pavement, and along the straight path through the flat meadow grasses he allowed himself to be carried away by the sultry notes of the violin, picturing Sherlock playing back at Baker Street, his lithe body and nimble fingers in the warm yellow light, fabric stretching over his shoulder blades as he - 

No. Stop, stop, stop, John thought. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, conjuring up an image of Olivia, the stunning first chair violinist in his high school orchestra. He had a clear view of her pert thighs from the clarinet’s position, and lucky for him, she always wore skirts above the knee. Once John was satisfied with the adjustment of fantasy, he brought his concentration away from Sherlock, Olivia, and the partitas and back to the road, realizing he lost another forty-five minutes inside his own head. He glanced over at Sherlock, who had fallen asleep again, head in his hand leaning against the door frame. They had just come off a large, successful case that John would eventually write up as The Norwood Bomber, just as soon as his mental fog lifted. Having fulfilled his purpose, Sherlock returned to eating and sleeping like any other typical human being; at least for the next few days until the torpor settles in again, as it always does. While their lives together were often unpredictable and full of adventure, Sherlock the man was as ritualized as they come. Like a human metronome, swinging between apathy and restlessness in counted measure.

The car’s headlamps shone like a spotlight on the South Street Cafe, still standing but looking a bit more worse for the wear than John remembered. Of course, nearly all things stored in long term memory appear rosier when they’re retrieved. John put the car in park, switched off the headlamps, and looked over at Sherlock, still sleeping. An electric sensation shot down through to his toes as John’s hand hovered for a moment in the space between them, debating where to touch in order to stir Sherlock awake. The more he tried to suppress the feeling, the stronger it became. Finally, he felt it dissipate as he touched Sherlock’s shoulder, rocking him gently back and forth. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock, we’re here,” John said, looking around to be sure no one could see into the car. His hand unconsciously slid up to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, skimming his dark brown curls for less than a second as he stirred awake with a yawn. John’s hand dropped to his side as he cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. 

“We’re here,” John repeated and got out of the car. Sherlock observed the way John’s jeans tightened around his thighs as he left. He stretched and followed John into the cafe, fingers weaving through the curls at the nape of his neck.


	2. South Street Cafe

_South Street Cafe, 1994._

“Come now, Harriet,” Rose Watson said between dainty sips of her Chardonnay, “Comprehensive schools are far more competitive than they were back in our day.” She exchanged glances with her husband, Hamish. “Your father went to a comprehensive school and look at the marvelous success he’s had in his military career.” 

Hamish grinned, the wrinkles showing proudly on his face as he reached out and squeezed Rose’s free hand resting on the red checkered tablecloth. John looked out the window at the people coming and going from the cafe, praying a tsunami would hit and put a definitive end to this dreadful conversation. What was supposed to be a celebration of his passing the 11-plus and heading to King Edward’s grammar school turned into...this.

Harry wiped a tear from her eye, nodding her head like a round orange fishing float at sea as her mother spoke. She hoped the more she appeared in agreement, the sooner the conversation would die peacefully. John’s heart ached for her. He had always admittedly been the cleverer of the two, but Harry had the imagination and creativity John envied. He so clearly took after his father, a toughened yet ethical man destined for military work; but Harry was a different person entirely. She was a free spirit standing in the shadow of Rose Watson, a woman who had memorized Chopin’s entire repertoire by age 12; who, by 16, was accepted to Oxford majoring in musical composition only to happily give it all up for children. Harry wasn’t a bad artist, but her interests were frenetic and bounced around too often for her to become expert at anything. Then again, she was only eleven. _What was wrong with this family?_ John thought as he swallowed the last bit of his Yorkshire pudding. 

“Picasso or Matisse?” Sherlock asked, sitting across from him at a small table by the window, lit by a votive candle.

“Sorry, what?” John asked, only then becoming aware of the fork in his hand.

“Instead of eating, it appears you’ve opted to construct a portrait in your risotto that bears resemblance to Picasso...or Matisse,” Sherlock said with a flare of his wrist. 

John had been pushing his food around on the plate for god only knows how long. Sherlock was halfway finished with his pasta Nicoise and the sky outside was pitch black. 

“It’s...neither, alright? I was just thinking,” John said as he slipped some of the ivory sludge onto his spoon. He tried to conceal a grimace.

“Hmm, trying something new today, are we?” Sherlock said. He saw right through John, paying close attention to his plate. 

“Piss off.” John spooned the risotto into his mouth, taking forever to chew and swallow the first bite of gloppy mush down. Sherlock smirked.

“What time is the service?” he asked.

“Really?” John cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, boring into Sherlock’s. “You want to do this during dinner?” 

Sherlock’s gaze lingered a moment, his and John’s eyes locked together as he searched for the source of John’s spiteful tone. 

Finding little evidence of severe transgression, he flicked through his phone. “You’ll be happy to know that even in a place as dull and dreadful as Louth, I’ve found us a case.”

“A _case?_ ” John said, letting his fork fall from his hand, its metallic clang registering throughout the small cafe. He cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, suppressing his frustration.

“We’re here for Harry, Sherlock, not bloody work.”

“Why can’t it be both?” 

His innocent, curious tone sent John reeling. He felt his left hand furl and unfurl in quick succession by his side. He crossed his arms and a subtle smirk flitted across his lips as he regained a bit of his composure. Being with this man was like living inside a fire. Who knew someone so socially oblivious could stir up such a violent reaction of, what was it? Hatred? Love? Both?

“Fine, your way. You do what you need to and I’ll stay out of your wake.” John picked his fork up and stabbed at his risotto, forcing another bite into his mouth, more to drive home a point than anything else. 

“Though don’t stay out of Harry’s, I believe that would be frowned upon.”

John nearly choked on his own giggle, then shook his head and sighed. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Can we not make jokes about my dead sister?”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “But do hurry up, I’m ready to see where we’ll be staying.”

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat and watched the spoon cross the threshold of John’s lips. John drew the spoon out slowly, eyes on Sherlock, watching the nervous way he ran his fingers across his lips. 

“What?” John asked. 

“Thinking.”


	3. The Watson Home

It was pitch black by the time they reached the house. The headlights of their rental car shone against the whitewashed boards of a quaint, two story cottage perched high on a grassy headland. Sherlock didn’t need to be in broad daylight to sense the grim nature of the place. The snapping wet cold that drilled down into his bones, the wind whipping small flecks of sand into his cheeks as he exited the car. Confirming his notion of a nearby shore, he heard the steady droll of waves lapping up against the sand far below them over the cliff’s edge.  
  
“Really, John? A white-boarded house atop a dune cliff?”  
  
“Quaint enough for you?”  
  
They approached the door and John entered without knocking. He gave a small shout to the kitchen, where the warm, yellow light washed dimly through the dining room, the table set for dinner.

  
“Oh, John, so good to see you. After all this time!” His mother said, opening her arms wide for an embrace. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at the greeting; a little chippy for being in town for a funeral.

  
“Good to see you too, mum.” He returned the embrace, his hands just barely grazing her elbows. John motioned towards Sherlock. “And this is Sherlock Holmes.”

  
Sherlock stepped forward, pleased with the formal introduction. “Pleasure, Mrs. Watson.”

  
“Oh, please, Rose. Hamish is out at the pub with friends from the hospital. Old mates."

  
“Don’t tell me you went through the trouble of making dinner,” John said.

  
“Why, have you already eaten?” She asked, returning to the stove to tend three simmering pots of what would have at one point smelled delicious but felt nauseating to John in the moment. He wasn’t sure any food could satisfy him now, even his mother’s prize-winning bolognese.

  
“We stopped on the way. I’m sorry, we should have called,” John scratched the back of his neck and fiddled with his ear.

  
“Quite alright,” she said. “Your father and I will have a feast and a half, then. Now don’t be rude, Johnny, give Sherlock the tour.”

  
Sherlock smirked and his eyes widened for a brief moment in John’s direction. John felt the same electricity snake up his spine from the bottom of his gut. It felt somehow wrong to feel it now, right in front of his mother and in his childhood home, no less, but that only made the feeling stronger. He pulled himself together.

  
“Course. Be back down in a bit.”

  
Sherlock followed John up the stairs, pretending not to notice again the way his jeans caught in all the right places. He was grateful that John let Sherlock shop for him that Saturday in Oxford Circus.

  
“I expect the full tour, Johnny,” Sherlock half-whispered from behind John as they approached the top of the stairs.

  
“Oh, shut up.”

  
The hall was long and narrow, a series of doors on either side of the hall leading into bedrooms, bathrooms, linen closets. The only particular feature of interest to Sherlock was John’s bedroom, which to his delight, remained almost unchanged from his boyhood. John insisted on only holding the door open enough so Sherlock could glimpse in, but Sherlock pushed past and stepped in before John could react. He scoured the room as if he were dissecting a crime scene, admiring every photograph, every knick-knack, deducing away inside his magnificent mind.

  
“Never pegged you for a boxer. How did I miss that?” Sherlock said, asking no one in particular.

  
John looked around the room but noticed no signs of his old high school boxing gear anywhere.

  
“Oh yeah? And how’d we get at that one?” John asked.

  
“Heavily worn carpet in front of the full length mirror,” Sherlock said pointing at the ground. “Surest sign of shadowboxing there is, next to full-blown narcissism, but your looks in this graduation photo do much to preclude that.”

  
“Give me that,” John said, reaching for the framed 6 by 8 photograph in Sherlock’s hand. He pushed it towards John, grazing his chest. John’s mouth fell open for a moment as he clutched the photograph.

  
“You’re an open book, John Watson,” Sherlock said, “but not in the way most boring people are. I’d like to stay in Harry’s room.”

  
John gave him a look that was both a glare and a sign of surprise, the look that meant Sherlock was still able to keep him guessing, the look Sherlock craved.

  
“Fine,” John said. “It’s the one across the hall.”

  
Sherlock opened the room to find a bed, a dresser, and a keyboard mounted on a stand. Everything else was nearly spotless, no doubt cleaned within an inch of its life by Rose. Intuition told him these scrubbings were routine throughout Harry's childhood, and it undoubtedly would have driven her insane to come home so many times to an immaculate room.

  
“It’s got practically nothing of Harry left in it,” John said, followed by a sigh that seemed to last for ages.

  
“Fit enough for me,” Sherlock said. He stepped close enough to John to feel his breath in the spot between his collarbones. His voice was a whisper.

  
"Your mother, has she always been so..." he lapsed, partly for lack of words and partly for the closing distance between them.

  
"Norman Rockwell?" John laughed and looked down, both of their bodies in his view. He spoke to their feet. "She's 'keep calm, carry on' personified."

  
"And look how well you've turned out because of it, blogging about crimes with the UK's favorite sociopath," Sherlock said. John laughed. As austere and elite of a man he was, he could always make John laugh.

  
"Now show me the rest of the downstairs.”

  
John felt the heat of Sherlock’s breath weave through his hair. “Yeah,” he said and followed Sherlock down, down, as he always did, down further into the rabbit hole, inching towards adventure.


	4. First Morning in Louth

The dim, blue light of early morning filtered through the windows in John’s bedroom. He woke, not with the sense of having slept in a stranger’s bed, but with the awful feeling of being 16 again. All around the room were scattered reminders of the boy John Watson, which filled him with an embarrassing vulnerability emblematic of that age.  _ Never again, not for the world,  _ John thought of his youth, still enraptured in morning’s mental haze. 

 

He thought about Harry at that age, 16 and full of fire. She put their parents through hell, late nights spent awake far past curfew until headlights flashed into the living room, followed by raised voices and slammed bedroom doors. Their relationship began to deteriorate when their paths diverged. John by and large took the straight and narrow, with only few exceptions as the need for danger crept up inside him, and even then he was smart enough to know how to cover his tracks. In her youth, Harry hid from no one, so determined not to be a “Watson” that she would settle for nearly anything else. It was around that time when she started drinking, stashing nips of peach Schnapps in the closet, concealed in the toes of her combat boots. 

 

John wondered how she made it twenty more years after the hurricane of their adolescence. And at the same time, he couldn’t believe his sister was gone and that today he would watch as she was lowered into the ground. It should have been the other way around, he thought. God should have taken him before her. Then, sharp and sudden, hunger cut through the haze like a knife. He held his stomach, pressing it hard in an attempt to keep it from digesting itself. He inched the door closed behind him and tiptoed down the stairs into the kitchen. 

 

He stood there, in his t-shirt and boxers, with the refrigerator door open. How long he stood there, he didn’t know exactly.  _ For the love of God, just eat something,  _ he thought as he reached for a foil-wrapped baking dish. Apparently Mrs. Hudson wasn’t the only one baking casseroles. He plunged a fork into the beige, noodley concoction and ate mechanically. His mouth was dry and swallowing was an effort,  _ side effect of anorexia,  _ he noted, self-diagnosing. The word clattered around in his mind as he provided justifications.  _ Not nervosa. Purely situational. It’ll pass.  _ Reassured, he covered the remaining casserole and placed it back in the fridge. 

 

Like he had so many times before, he made his way back up the staircase to his bedroom without noticing Sherlock waiting for him at the top. John looked up with a start. He saw Sherlock,  _ God did he look smart,  _ dressed head to toe in black. He felt horribly underdressed in his own home. 

 

“Sherlock, it’s 7:30 in the morning!”

“Going out for a walk,” he said. “Care to join?”

“Now?” John asked. “In that?” He motioned with an open palm in the direction of Sherlock’s lithe body.

“Pot, kettle.”

“I’m not the one planning on leaving the hou--”

“No, then?” Sherlock said as he glided past John in a whirl of sandalwood with the slightest hint of vanilla. 

John turned at the top of the stairs. What else had he to do, other than think about either his bumbling adolescence, the death of his sister, or the casserole half-eaten in the fridge. “Wait,” he said, careful not to wake his sleeping parents. “Let me put something on.”

 

The blue, winter light did nothing to bring the small village of Louth alive. A biting dampness hung in the air, tossed around by the salty breeze coming off the ocean. The dune cliffs were visible now, the grasses a withering green patched occasionally with snow. A muddy path had been worn cliffside, meandering towards the cluster of other whitewashed coastal homes. It was as idyllic as it was sorrowful, and it touched Sherlock in a way he would never express to anyone, a note of fascination to be filed away in a secret part of himself only he could access.

 

“It’s a lot nicer in the summer,” John said, misreading the wrinkle in Sherlock’s nose and brow as disdain. There it was again, that vulnerability. Defending his hometown like it mattered for anything. 

 

“What do you think of Reverend Hayround?” Sherlock asked as they walked shoulder to shoulder down the narrow, muddy path. 

 

John shrugged. “Nice enough bloke, he’s been here preaching since I was a boy. Seems he’s got a solid head on his shoulders, knows a lot about the townspeople. Good humored man, why?”

 

“Because we’re going to see him.”

 

“Yeah, but not until later. The funeral doesn’t start till 11:30.”

 

“The case, John.”

 

“The case?” He looked up at Sherlock with a wrinkle in his brow. “That’s right, the bloody case. But what does Mr. Hayround have to do with it?”

 

“He’s the one who brought it to my attention. I intend on interviewing him at the church.”

 

“Now?”

 

“Would you prefer me wait until the funeral?”

 

John sighed. “Fine. It’s up this way.”

  
Sherlock and John walked through the mud and dune grasses until rounding a crook in the path took them towards the church. A commanding spire cast in shadow against the backdrop of the cloud-quilted sky, a stone behemoth that looked as if it had been there longer than God himself. The church was the hub of village life in Louth, and Mr. Hayround likely saw and heard it all. 


	5. Outside Louth Church

By the time they arrived, the thick clouds began to part, revealing a thinner, misty layer of stratus hovering above the church spire. The walkway to the church was long and up-leaning, with three sets of stairs which gently sloped to the tall, wooden doors. The individual slabs of slate composing the walk had cracked, broken with age and regular underfoot traffic. Verdant green moss crept around the corners like fingers reaching toward the center of each slab. Continuing up the slope beyond the church was the cemetery, scattered with an impressive amount of gravestones given the minuscule population, a suggestion of its longevity. Through the thin fog, Sherlock could discern a tall, thin figure hunched on one knee, tending to the weeds sprouting up from the corners of each tombstone. He squinted, searching for more details, already beginning the work. 

 

John waved away a memory of Harry, the two of them running about on the church lawn after a stifling Sunday service, John playing keep-away with Harry’s favorite stuffed animal. A small, grey rabbit named Frank, who went everywhere she did. He smiled sadly at the thought, glad for having Sherlock there to help maintain some objective distance from the place. As much as it was possible.  

 

The front doors of the church opened with a creaking that hung in the air moments after Mr. Hayround emerged, jogging down the slope towards John and Sherlock. John wondered if he’d ever seen the reverend move with such urgency. 

 

Mr. Hayround shoved his hands into the pockets of his black woolen coat, which stretched tightly across his considerable stomach. He ran his fingers through his thinning, red hair and gave a solemn nod. “Thank the Lord you lads are here.” The wrinkles in the corners of his eyes softened as he looked at John. “Johnny boy, look at you, it’s been ages.” The softness left and his wrinkles reappeared. “My sincerest apologies for your loss.”

 

“Good to see you too, Reverend,” John replied, stifling any emotion he might have felt had he decided to lower his guard.  _ Not on a case,  _ John thought, distancing himself in the favor of professionalism. 

 

Another reverent nod from Mr. Hayround. Then, to Sherlock, “Thank you for agreeing to meet so early in the morning. I phoned the Watsons as soon as I caught wind of you coming to town. As you know, this is a matter of tragedy and significant urgency --”

 

“One of your disciples was murdered,” Sherlock said, with the dispassionate interest of a scientist collecting information. John delivered a swift and subtle elbow jab to his rib cage. 

 

The reverend seemed charmed. “We call them members of the congregation. Clearly you aren’t a religious man, Mr. Holmes,” Mr. Hayround said with a chuckle that caught in his throat. 

 

Sherlock looked towards the horizon. John read the slightest hint of embarrassment on his face and smiled. “Go on, reverend.”

 

“Anyway, and this is important, we’re not entirely sure if this was a case of murder. A very strange situation. During last week’s Sunday service, one of our most regular members suffered a...well, somewhat of a conniption, in the middle of our gathering song.” Mr. Hayround looked at Sherlock. “We begin every service with a gathering song, a traditional hymn meant to bring the community together and raise spirits before the sermon.” Sherlock nodded, secretly grateful for the explanation.

 

“Is it the same hymn every time?” Sherlock asked. John squinted up at him. 

 

Mr. Hayround replied, “No, it’s different for every service. The hymn was almost over when Maeve Hornsby began to scream, a bloodcurdling shriek that echoed through the church like nothing I’d ever heard before. Everyone stopped singing straight off and stared at poor Maeve, shocked. When she dropped to the floor, the other members began to panic and swarmed around her. There was so much confusion and shouting, but from the pulpit I could see the look on her face.” 

 

Mr. Hayround lowered his voice. “It’s the way she died, Mr. Holmes. Her face...all mangled, contorted...and her limbs curled into a palsy. Like she’d seen the face of the devil. She maintained that ungodly expression long after her pulse slowed to a stop. The congregation was dumbfounded.”  

 

“And what about you, Mr. Hayround? Were you dumbfounded as well?” Sherlock asked, eyes trained on the reverend like a German shepherd, waiting for the slightest reason to tear him apart. 

 

He stuttered, “Of-of course I was, Mr. Holmes. Now what exactly are you implying?” 

 

“Simply exploring all possibilities,” Sherlock said. 

 

“It’s nothing, reverend...just part of the work,” John offered, eyeing Sherlock. 

 

Mr. Hayround continued, “Anyway, it’s been horrible for patronage. Word is spreading through the town that the church is haunted. Our attendance has been slashed in half, the lowest it’s been in all my years. Dreadful.”

 

The tall, spindly graveyard attendant, having finished his outdoor duties, slipped through the front doors into the church. Again, the slow creak hung in the air, the sound trapped and dampened by the dissipating morning fog. 

 

“I’d like to see the crime scene,” said Sherlock. 

 

“Follow me,” Mr. Hayround replied, and the three men ventured up the slated slope to the tall wooden doors. John and Sherlock hung closely together, behind the reverend. 

 

John leaned over and whispered, “What are we thinking so far?” 

 

Sherlock whispered in return. “Not the vicar, his reaction was genuine. Plus I could tell by the dirt under his fingernails that he fits your description of a ‘good man’.” 

 

“Oh yeah? How’s that?” John asked. 

 

“Did you see the man weeding in the cemetery? A dirty chore most church leaders would leave for the grounds workers. The slight staining on Mr. Hayround’s right knee suggests the reverend was out in the cemetery earlier, assisting the groundsman.”

 

“I didn’t even see the groundsman,” John admitted in a mumbling sigh. 

 

“You’ll see him soon enough,” Sherlock said. “He’s next on our list of interviewees.”

 

“You knew there was a groundsman before we came?”

 

“No, but he’s next now.”

  
Sherlock and John caught up with Mr. Hayround and the tall wooden doors closed behind them with a grim finality that reverberated through the great stone hall.   


	6. Before the Funeral

The church atrium was tremendous. Delicate stonework scaled the walls up to the ceiling, beyond the gaunt, cherrywood beams and upwards into the shape of a dome. Sherlock’s polished, Italian shoes clapped underneath the slate, same variety as the outside walkway. The sound reminded John of heels and his heart beat a little faster with every footfall. The word sinner, sinner, flew circles in his mind; he tried to bat the word out with conversation. 

“A bit different now from the old days,” John said, appreciating the way the stone arch carried his voice.

“We’ve had a few updates,” said Mr. Hayround. “Most of the work is a credit to the congregation; several of the men and women of our community are blessed with a helpful trade.”

While they talked, ushers scuttled around setting up ropes at the entrance, candles in the pews, and flowers at the altar. Daylilies. John felt his insides lurch in recognition; they were preparing for Harry’s funeral. 

“What is the name of your groundsman?” Sherlock asked, oblivious to current conversation. 

“You mean Dieter?” 

“The tall man working outside earlier this morning.”

“Yes, that’s Dieter. Dieter Longhaus. This congregation has a history of providing tenancy to those who are willing to work, regardless of personal background.”

“Was he a criminal?” Sherlock prompted.

“Not to my knowledge,” the father replied. “He’s recently come off the sideshow circuit,” Mr. Hayround edged in closer to Sherlock and lowered his voice. “Due to his height and posture, they used to call him ‘The Human Cane.’ I can’t imagine anyone tolerating the treatment he’s endured.” Dieter emerged from a dark doorway to the right of the altar, hanging ribbons by the ceiling beams. 

“Did he have any connection to Ms. Hornsby?” Sherlock asked. 

“None other than the fact he was taken with her, as were half the single village men.”

“Probably even some of the married ones,” John said. “She was quite beautiful.” Sinner, sinner.

Sherlock’s brow tightened as he cast a sidelong glance at John, whose head was down and his lips in a puckered pout. 

"Engaged, though, as of last month," said Mr. Hayround.

With his hands neatly behind his back, Sherlock walked towards Dieter, leaving John to tie up the conversation with the reverend.

“Dieter Longhaus,” Sherlock said. “The human cane.” 

Dieter turned to face him, his mouth contorted to hide the hurt at the sound of his stage moniker, more an insult than a name. John walked quickly over to them, having wrapped up with Mr. Hayround. 

Dieter loomed above them both. He had to be about six and a half feet tall, with what can only be described as a “hump” at the peak of his back between his shoulder blades. His complexion was pale and his limbs were gangly, but there was a passivity to him, a gentleness in his eyes, that took John aback. 

“Were you here the day of Ms. Hornsby’s death?” Sherlock asked. 

Dieter nodded, eyes cast towards the ground, making himself appear smaller. “I was. I heard the screams from my room in that wing of the church,” Dieter pointed to the a darkened doorway to the right of the altar. “I ran out to see what the matter was, but there was a crowd around her, just terrible.” His eyes began to glass over with a reddish sheen. 

Instinctively, John said, “I’m sorry, I can tell she meant a lot to you.”

Dieter shook his head, swallowing hard. “Maybe that’s true, but I was a nobody to her. She wouldn’t even come near me, always had someone else with her whenever I was around.”

“Was she afraid of you?” Sherlock asked. 

He shrugged. “Most people are.” A pause. “I have to get back to work, good meeting you, though I don’t believe you told me your name.” His brooding turned darker as he glared at Sherlock. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said, motioning to him. “I’m John Watson, lovely to meet you as well.” 

 

-

 

“What time is it?” John asked as he and Sherlock strolled through town. Some of the quaint, little shops were opening their shutters while others remained closed. 

“Time for a review,” Sherlock said. John sighed and dug his phone out of his pocket to check the time himself, handsome arrogant bastard. 9:07. 

“Here,” Sherlock ducked into a small shop that John didn’t recognize. Didn’t that used to be Telly’s Barber Shop? As he entered, the smell of frying bacon and breakfast sausage filled him with simultaneous hunger and repulsion. 

“He’ll have the English breakfast,” Sherlock ordered the waitress as he stripped off his coat and took a seat across from John in a cozy booth by the window. John didn’t know whether to feel angry with him or moved by the display of affection. The restaurant buzzed with middle-aged regulars chatting and reading the newspaper at the breakfast bar. There was one other family seated a few rows away, a younger couple with a boy and a girl. John looked away.

“Well, let’s hear it. What are we looking at?” he asked.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “A murder, no question. A woman of her age, appearance, and apparent social standing does not simply collapse into a terror and die without cause. It just doesn’t happen.”

John nodded. “I have to admit, I’ve never seen anything like it at Bart’s.”

“Neither have I. So now the general cause of death has been established, it is time to become more specific in our thinking.”

“Well,” said John, sticking a fork into his breakfast and lifting it to his mouth begrudgingly, “What could have caused her to react like that? Could have been a substance user, could have had an allergic reaction…”

“No, John. If we know who murdered Ms. Hornsby, the ‘how’ will become more apparent.”

He contemplated another bite. “What do we think of Dieter?”

“Man of delicate constitution, clearly feels too much too strongly, no doubt resulting from his frankly alarming appearance and chosen profession. But Ms. Hornsby had many suitors and any judgments of motive or method now would be premature.” 

Sherlock sat in silent contemplation and John finished nearly three quarters of the food on his plate, the most he’d eaten in days. He noticed how when the sun hit Sherlock’s eyes from the side, they glowed, almost translucent, quite nearly angelic. Sherlock was studying another man, the only other man wearing a suit in the entire restaurant, finishing his coffee at the bar. John took one last bite and motioned for the check. Harry’s funeral was in less than an hour and people would be gathering at the church at any moment.


	7. The Funeral

“Since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died. So we will be with the Lord for ever. Therefore encourage one another with these words.” 

The reverend's address hung like humidity in the stifled air of the church, filled with mourners. John sat with Rose, Hamish, and Clara in the first pew, nearest to the reverend’s podium. Three rows back, in Maeve Hornby’s usual seat was Sherlock, taking rigorous note of his surroundings; the whitewashed wood of the pew in front of him, the unassuming maroon bench cushions, the dusty shelf which held the book of hymns as well as tiny golf pencils and envelopes for tithe.

John stifled a scoff by clearing his throat after Mr. Hayround’s opening address. If Harriet were listening from her position in the coffin at the altar, she would curse their parents for allowing such a biblically tinted service. He heard a sharp intake of breath accompanied by a long sigh from Clara; he was sure she thought the same. John’s mother placed her fingertips on his thigh.

“We have come here today to remember before God our sister Harriet, to give thanks for her life, to commend her to God our merciful redeemer and judge, to commit her body to be buried, and to comfort one another in our grief.”

 _I should feel something,_ John thought, the sound of the reverend’s voice distant and muddy. _This is the time to let myself feel it, if I’m ever going to, it has to be now._

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death-”

John felt his mother’s grip on his thigh tighten. Somewhere, someone sniveled into a handkerchief. _Why don’t I feel anything?_ He felt as if someone lodged a chubby finger into the space between his collarbones, choking the air out from some deep recess in his throat. Not sadness. Guilt, for not feeling enough sadness. He looked down to see his left hand curling and uncurling. At least it was something, at least guilt looked enough like grief to keep people from wondering what was wrong with him.

“...we entrust Harriet to your mercy, in the name of Jesus our Lord, who has died and is alive and reigns with you, now and for ever. Amen.”

Two ushers flanked each side of Harriet’s casket and lifted it, carrying her towards the door to the burial site. Mr. Hayround motioned for the family to follow first, and row by row, the pews emptied as people trailed behind. John’s feet carried him where he needed to go with a solemnity he’d experienced before at makeshift services for his friends, fallen soldiers, victims of war. His father walked in much the same way as they filed through the parted doors into the contrastingly garish light of midday. 

John watched as they lowered the casket into the ground, a vague ringing in his ears. Sherlock was standing next to him, solemn and steady. Their eyes met for a moment and John was surprised by the emotion he found there. A pale ocean of empathy and intensity flashed past and John suddenly felt vulnerable. He clenched his jaw, watching the groundsmen shovel dirt over Harriet’s grave. The mass of people filed back towards the church when John realized it was over; he no longer had a sister. He regretted not being closer, not prying the pills from her hands himself. Surrounded by friends and family, he had never felt so entirely alone.

Mr. Hayround addressed the gathering. “Unto him that is able to keep us from falling, and to present us faultless before the presence of his glory…”

Still nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. _What’s wrong with me?_

“Now and ever.”

“Amen.”  
_Bollocks. She would have hated this._ John’s lips barely moved as the crowd uttered in unison, 

“Amen.”


	8. The Experiment [Part 1]

In the light of early afternoon, the funeral guests had dispersed across the church lawn, huddled in groups of three or four. The breeze picked up along the coast, the smell of salt and brine quick through the air. John gave a nod to his parents and left with Sherlock, away from the bleakness and hollow condolences offered by people he barely knew twenty years ago, much less now. They walked side by side when Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

 

“Do you….want to….”

 

“No,” John said, shaking his head, staring straight ahead.

 

Silence hung between them as Sherlock racked his brain for any comfort or consolation he could offer. He was at a loss, and he never liked the feeling of utter speechlessness. Sherlock glanced down and saw John, his eyes still fixed on the horizon like he had just come off a hospital shift; exhausted, but very little else.

 

“Right, good, so as long as that’s done, I believe I know what killed--”

 

“Gentlemen!” came a call from behind as a man approached them, running. He was tall, rather handsome, dressed in a black suit with a charcoal necktie. Sherlock recognized him from the funeral and from the restaurant just before.

 

He jogged nearly 30 meters to catch up with them in a suit in the midday sun, yet no sign of sweat and only a few deep breaths before speaking. Athletic, well-conditioned. Military, by the looks of his haircut and posture.

 

“I’m sorry, but are you Sherlock Holmes?” he said.

 

“Yes, why? Who are you?” Sherlock asked.

 

“David, David Jenkins. I’m...I was Maeve’s fiance.”

 

“So sorry for your loss,” John said.

 

“Likewise,” replied David. “Mr. Holmes, have you found anything more related to the investigation? I’d like to find the man who did this and…” He tensed. “Forgive me, emotions are still running hot. Have you found anything?”

 

“The investigation is still underway. Mr. Hayround will notify you of any changes,” Sherlock said as he turned and walked away. John followed instinctively after, doling an apologetic look to David.

 

“I’d like to skewer him,” David raised his voice. Sherlock stopped and turned, sensing his tone shift from sincere to downright menacing, and back again to sincere. “Please, Mr. Holmes, let me know when you find something.”

 

Sherlock nodded and continued walking with a renewed sense of urgency, John jogging intermittently to keep up.

 

John hung his blazer on the coatrack upon entering the house, his mother, father, and Clara still mingling with the guests at the church. He didn’t know how they did it; to stand knee-deep in all that emotion for so long, why would anyone subject themselves to that?

 

“Well, that’s enough death for one day,” John sighed.

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sherlock said as he darted into the kitchen, flinging open cabinets in search of materials. John followed behind him, baffled.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” John asked.

 

“Do you remember what I was about to tell you before Mr. Jenkins so rudely interjected himself? Of course you don’t, allow me to remind you.”

 

“Just get to it, Sherlock.”

 

“I said I believe I know what killed Maeve Hornsby, but I need to test it.” Sherlock whipped a roasting pan out of a low cabinet.

 

“Test what? Are we baking now?”

 

Sherlock pulled a small bag from his pocket, filled with remnants of a fine, graphite colored powder.

 

“I discovered this powder, spread across the lower corners of Miss Hornsby’s hymnal. I scraped the residue from inside the shelving.” A smile spread across Sherlock’s face. He was enjoying this.

 

“What do you think it is?” John asked.

 

“I don’t know, hence the testing. Could you go upstairs and retrieve something from my suitcase?”

 

John sighed. “Yeah. What?”

 

“Dipropylene glycol,” Sherlock said. “White vial, orange cap. Shorthand label DPG, chemical formula C6H-”

 

“Alright, white with orange cap. Got it.”

 

John ascended the stairs two at a time as he heard Sherlock banging around in the kitchen like a madman. No wonder their kitchen in the flat was a literal science experiment. _Once a chemist, always a chemist_ , John thought.

 

He retrieved the vial from Sherlock’s suitcase, taking a moment to appreciate the buttery feel of his dress shirts, always impeccable and brand-name. John fingered through the rest of his clothes, noticing that he bothered to bring his favorite silk dressing gown, five pairs of black boxer briefs and equal number of classy shin-high socks. A loud crash in the kitchen jolted John away from the suitcase, filling him with a sense of panic and intense guilt. He grabbed the vial and took the stairs two at a time again.

 

“You alright?” John asked, coming around the corner into the kitchen.

 

“Of course I’m alright. Do you have it?” Sherlock asked just before taking the vial from John’s hand. If John hadn’t known him better, he would have thought he was absolutely manic.

 

“Why did you have that in your suitcase, anyway?” John asked as Sherlock poured liquid from the vial into the roasting pan.

 

“A healthy woman, mid-30’s dies in the middle of a church service? Poisoning was among the top five possibilities, best to come prepared.”

 

John paused, hesitant to ask another question lest he be insulted. But genius craves an audience.

 

“So how do you plan on testing it?”

 

“Combustible incense, John. I’m converting the powder to an incense. The majority of powdered poisons are lethal when injected, but burned, in the correct amounts at the correct rate, produce similar effects short of actual death.” Sherlock was laser focused, rolling the graphite-chemical mixture between two sheets of baking paper.

 

“Wait. You’re making a poison incense...which you’ll be testing...on yourself?”

 

“Not just me,” Sherlock said, enjoying this almost too much. “You too!”

 

“Are you out of your mind?” John asked, steadying himself on the kitchen counter, eyes wide.

 

“Here, present, clear as the morning sun,” Sherlock said with a hint of sarcasm. “There is a killer on the loose, and rather than send this chemical off to a laboratory and wait weeks for results, I will know conclusively by the end of the day not only what killed her but who. The benefits far outweigh the costs.”

 

“Oh yeah, what exactly are the costs?” John asked, incredulous.

 

“Uncertain, _except_ the fact that all symptoms will be temporary. When it dries, we will sit across from each other in the den overlooking the garden so we can monitor the effect of the poison on each other and intervene if necessary.”

 

“And you’re sure the effects are temporary?”

  
“One hundred percent,” Sherlock said, peeling back the wax paper, carefully prodding the paper-thin slab. “Shall we?”


	9. The Experiment [Part 2]

A chill shot through John Watson as Sherlock threw the glass doors open, letting a gust of wintry air swirl into the warm den. John sat in his father’s burgundy armchair, not unlike his own back in London, which was pulled at an awkward angle to face the other chair square-on, for “monitoring purposes”, as Sherlock put it.  _ An evening of getting high and staring at each other _ , John thought. Given the circumstances of the day, he decided it wasn’t the absolute worst way to kill a few hours. 

 

The ornate rug scrunched beneath the feet of Sherlock’s chair as he pushed it closer to John’s, adjusting its distance from the small end table between them with surgical precision.

 

“It’s important we remain equidistant,” Sherlock mumbled as he knelt to properly gauge his measurements.

 

John propped his head up on his hand, smiling down at Sherlock and elongating the word, “Mmhm. E-qui-distant.”

 

“Rude,” Sherlock said. “I would do something more drastic, if I wasn’t already about to poison you.”

 

“You’re poisoning the both of us,” John said, “I’d mind your mouth. Need I remind you which one of us is the army doctor?" He looked up at Sherlock with a grin.

 

“You do love to show off." 

"Yep, that's me. Between the two of us, I'm definitely the show off." 

Sherlock placed the glass dish holding the paper-thin incense on the end table. “I’m going to set this alight, but it’s imperative that we observe each other and bring the experiment to its end should the symptoms become alarming. I’ve left the door ajar for expressly this purpose.”

 

“Sherlock, what _are_ we doing?” John asked, not really expecting an answer. 

 

“An experiment.” 

 

He struck the match and John watched as the flame grew, bright and smouldering at the end of the matchstick before quieting slightly, shrinking to a pale yellow nib. Sherlock placed the match beneath the charcoal-colored sheet and eased back into his armchair, awaiting the results. 

 

The bleariness set in within seconds. Tiny curls of smoke spun upwards towards the ceiling, filling the room with a dark, musky, and pungent smell unlike anything John experienced before. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, muddying his vision. The curls of smoke collected into clouds, and John swore he saw the thick haze descend upon him, holding within it all the deepest horrors of the universe, monstrous and infinitely wicked. A bitter taste caught in his throat and he tried to cough, but nothing happened. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing emerged save for a strained and gagging croak he vaguely recognized as his own as the haze spun around him, weaving its curled and spindly fingers into his flesh, through his eyes, his ears, his mouth, through every part of him. He felt every rigid hair standing straight up on his neck, every pore tingling in bleak agony. 

 

Lost in the depths of his own turmoil, John glimpsed Sherlock’s face, white as a sheet, unmoving, and terrified - the same exact look he saw on Maeve Hornsby. With Sherlock in imminent danger, John lurched from his chair and wrapped his arms around him, and in a frenzied daze they careened through the doorway and landed with a thud on the cold, damp grass outside, on top of each other as the last of the afternoon sunlight spilled over them. Sherlock gasped beneath him, John’s heart beating out of his chest. Their panting breath turned to vapor on the air, white clouds forming and dissipating all around them, warm like their bodies pressing against one another, glorious and electric and alive. 

 

John looked down and noticed he was gripping Sherlock’s collar, knuckles white and arms tense, every ounce of him surging with adrenaline. Sherlock stared up at him, eyes wild and brilliant blue, as John let his lips fall, hungry, crashing down into Sherlock. His lips were smooth and salty against John’s as he felt each clamor and undulation,  _finally, finally_ ; another rush of adrenaline as John dragged his hands from Sherlock’s lapels to just beneath his jawbone, his palms pressing into his throbbing arteries. Their breath was heavy and warm and he could feel Sherlock’s jagged breath against his cheek, inside his mouth as John ground Sherlock’s body into the grass, straddling him. John shot his hand up through Sherlock’s curls, damp with sweat and dew. He formed a fist in them as he drove his face in further, dizzy and nearly suffocating in the fervor. He felt Sherlock's heat pressing into his thigh and rutted up against it, forcing a guttural moan from Sherlock that reverberated in John’s mouth, making him hard. 

 

With a sudden force, John lifted himself off Sherlock and rolled away. He brought his sleeve to his mouth and wiped away the wetness, his lips tingling and slightly sore. He turned his sleeve and blotted his eyes, wet and cold. _Were those tears?_ The two lay side by side on their backs, ruddy faces warm, sharp inhales and exhales cutting through all the words unsaid. The sunlight felt exposing. Sherlock wiped his clammy forehead and placed his hand over his mouth, eyes wide and flitting ever so slightly back and forth.

 

“Are you both quite done?” Clara’s voice, distant and muffled yet ringing in John’s ears. He grimaced and leaned his head back, hitting it against the grass. “Shit.”

 

“Harry’s not in the ground two hours and you….you….this is incredible,” Clara said, her arms falling at her sides in exasperation. Sherlock sat up, straining to focus on her. He was a mess: his hair stood on end, sprouting off in a dozen directions, his entire mouth reddened with heat and friction, his nose a similar shade from the cold.

 

“Whatever you lit smells dreadful. And what, are you paying him to watch?”

 

Sherlock followed Clara’s gaze to the picket fence lined with evergreen shrubs, and clear as day he spotted David Jenkins before he took off at a lightning whip around the side of the house and into the driveway. 

  
Sherlock jolted up and dragged John to his feet in a blurry instant. “Get up!” he yelled as he shot a glance back into the den. The glass dish of incense was gone, and he knew exactly where it went. Where it was going. 


	10. The Chase

Breathless, John and Sherlock exploded into the driveway as David Jenkins mounted a yellow Lambretta scooter, revved the motor, and sped into the road with a few skids across the mud. John slowed up, preparing to admit defeat as Sherlock flew past him, his long coat trailing behind like a cape as he yelled, “Come  _ on,  _ John!” John took off at a full sprint to keep Sherlock in his sights as he peeled around the corner after David. 

 

The scenery passed by in a blur of shapes and colors; green and tan for dune grasses and sand, large white and blue blurs of neighbor’s houses, greyish blips of seagulls as they flit across the darkening sky.

 

His lungs were on fire by the time they arrived, of all places, back at Louth Church. But instead of ascending the long, slate steps to the front doors, he followed tightly behind Sherlock as he ran through the mud and grass and patches of snow around to the back entrance. Sherlock slowed to catch his racing breath for a just moment when he saw David’s Lambretta, thrown off to the side of the doorway in haste, no kickstand, a careless choice for such an expensive vehicle. What he was there to do needed to be done in a hurry.

 

They both heard a loud crash and a low-pitched yelp coming from the second story window of the church dormitory. Sherlock flashed a glance at John, who nodded slightly in response just before Sherlock burst through the door and ascended the narrow, stone staircase beyond it, John following closely behind. They began to hear traces of the conversation between the two gentlemen upstairs. 

 

“She thought I was a  _ freak,”  _ John heard a raised voice. 

 

“Is that Dieter?” he asked Sherlock. 

 

“Nearly certain,” he replied as they bound up the last stone flight of stairs. 

 

“You killed her!” David screamed, followed by an agonizing groan from Dieter. 

 

John and Sherlock threw the door open at the top of the staircase, revealing a gruesome scene.

 

An intricate, brass floor lamp was strewn across the floor, broken glass from the bulb scattered over the layers of rugs covering the wooden floorboards. Dieter’s long frame was stretched across the floor, blood trickling from his forehead. His knuckles were white, fingers clawing the edges of a rug in a desperate attempt to free himself from David, who was on top of him, straddling him with a strong arm pressed into his back squarely between the shoulder blades. His other hand was jammed into Dieter’s open mouth, forcing the charcoal powder down his throat. 

 

Sherlock and John watched helplessly on, knowing exactly what was happening, but they were both completely powerless to stop it. Just a mere few seconds too late. Dieter’s eyes widened and his body convulsed under David’s control. David winced as Dieter bit at his hand, still lodged in his mouth. David glanced up at them, his eyes glassed over, mouth slightly agape and uncomprehending, and slowly, he released the lanky and lifeless frame on the floor and drew himself away as Dieter’s entire body went rigid, his face contorted into a horrified snarl.

 

“What have you done?” John asked as he rushed to Dieter’s side, checking for any signs of life when surely he would find none. 

 

“He did it, he killed her,” David said, still sitting next to Dieter’s body, rocking slowly back and forth. “He killed her, he said he killed her.”

 

“Grey cohosh,” Sherlock said, mumbling to himself. John looked up, expecting Sherlock to say more, but David didn’t even hear him.

 

“Dumb prick didn’t know when to stop hitting on my girl,” David’s voice cracked. “Of course she’d reject him, we were getting married!” He turned his hands back and forth in his lap: the left stained with Dieter’s blood, the right covered in saliva and remnants of grey, sooty powder.

 

“We were getting married….” he said before collapsing into a sobbing fit.

 

John seized the moment to fish his mobile out from his pocket, placing a call to 9-9-9. He spoke in a calm, soft voice. “We need an ambulance, a man’s been poisoned and beaten.”

 

David continued to sob, completely unaware of anyone or anything else in the room, except his own pain.

 

The three of them waited there for the police and ambulance to arrive. John and Sherlock recounted the series of events to the officer on duty and were walking across the church lawn when the reverend approached them. 

 

“Boys,” Mr. Hayround said in greeting. 

 

“Evening, reverend,” John said. 

 

“I’ve just caught wind of everything,” the reverend lowered his gaze and shook his head as he spoke. “I can’t believe Dieter would have done such a thing. For what I knew, he was a good man.”

 

“People can surprise you,” Sherlock said. 

 

“I suppose they can,” the reverend replied. “Poor Maeve, rest her soul. To see her fiance rot in a prison cell, just think of it.” He brought his hand to his mouth in an effort to regain composure. “At least now this whole tragedy can be put to rest.”

 

“Yes, I believe it can. Take care of yourself, reverend,” John said. 

 

“You do the same, Johnny boy.” Mr. Hayround placed a hand on John’s shoulder, then turned to Sherlock. “And thank you for all your work, Mr. Holmes. Without you, Dieter’s death would have been just another unexplained incident.” 

 

“It was the very least I could do,” Sherlock said and sighed. John could tell he was disappointed...but why? Because he wasn’t able to save the life of a murderer?  _ Perhaps Sherlock Holmes was a great man after all, though God forbid he ever let anyone know it. _

  
The reverend gave a solemn nod to the two men and receded into the church, blue and red police lights still flashing against the stone dormitory wall. Sherlock and John walked home, side by side, through nightfall on the otherwise cold and sleepy town, the silence between them growing thicker and thicker with each passing second. 


	11. The Walk Home

“Right. So….grey cohosh then?” With his house in sight down the path, John finally broke the choking silence.

 

“Is that really the most relevant point of discussion?”

 

John ignored him. “It’s an herbal thing, isn’t it?”

 

Sherlock cast him a glare that John couldn’t quite see in the tail end of twilight, but he could certainly feel it cutting through him.

 

Sherlock spoke, cold and removed. “Relative of black cohosh, used primarily by Wiccans in the formulation of spells and secondarily by circus workers seeking to instill fear in an audience. Not a huge deductive leap from circus worker to The Human Cane. Who knows if he knew it could be lethal when swallowed: it could have been a case of revenge taken too far. Sentiment makes fools of us all. That  _ is  _ what you want to hear, isn’t it? How you prefer to think of me?”

 

John stopped, unexpectedly hurt. “You know that’s not...I know you, and you’re not…” He jammed his hands into his pockets, arms stiff. The wind blew crisp and biting off the coast. Sherlock stepped in front of John, blocking the gust with his tall frame and long coat. The wind sent Sherlock’s curls forward, dancing around his face.

 

“The elephant in the room,” Sherlock said in a low tone, almost apologetic. 

 

John scratched his neck, glancing up only for a second before bowing his head again. 

He shuffled his weight back and forth on his feet, sinking his trainers further into the mud. “About that, I think it was-”

 

“Not that. Your sister,” Sherlock corrected him.  

 

John stared up at him, silent save for a wordless gulp. 

 

“How are you?” Sherlock asked with a warmth and curiosity that astonished John. The weight of the question resonated through John in a surge of vulnerability he could not bring himself to control.

 

“I’m a bloody wreck,” John said, surprised, as if hearing the notion for the very first time. The words continued to flow like waves beating relentlessly against the shore. Messy, disorganized, thoughtless, but tragic and true. “I haven’t eaten, I’ve barely slept, I’m wracked with guilt for not doing something sooner, not stepping in, not calling more often. For all the tough love, for not taking her seriously enough, for nearly everything. I’m sorry. And I wish I could tell her, but I can’t.”

 

“But you can,” Sherlock said. “In time, you can tell her like you’ve just told me right here.”

 

“You know bloody well she can’t hear me,” John said, his voice barely a whisper, all his energy devoted to fighting back the impulse to let go completely. He worried what could happen if he let go. Was this the last straw, would he lose control so permanently he would never be able to recover himself? Head swimming, he fought against the urge. He pinched his thumb and forefinger tightly around the bridge of his nose; a trick his father taught him to regain composure, to trick the body out of sadness by inflicting pain.  

“ _ I _ heard you,” Sherlock said as he reached a tentative hand to the small of John’s back. “She will, too.”

 

The touch incited an electricity that radiated through John, eradicating the sadness, the guilt, leaving just the feeling of teetering on the verge of losing control, the raw closeness resulting from being so nakedly authentic with another human being.

 

John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s neck, fingering the dark brown curls at his nape. He pulled Sherlock’s face down towards his, his nose pressing gently against Sherlock’s cold, red cheek. Sherlock brought his other hand to John’s hip, slowly drawing their bodies together.

 

“Jesus,” John whispered, eyes closed, his breath hot against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock was speechless and unmoving, his breathing short and shallow, lips parted in anticipation, waiting for John to make the first move. Painstakingly, John kissed him. Sherlock could feel every nerve ending, every soft, wet sensation as he returned the kiss, sucking on John’s bottom lip until he felt the warm surge of John’s tongue, both of John’s hands warm against his cheeks, John’s thumbs running up and down his jawbone. Their breath became rushed, jagged, and weighty, spilling out into each other’s mouths, the condensation forming wet and warm patches on their cheeks.

 

John broke the kiss, still holding Sherlock’s face in his hands as he looked up at him, repeating in whisper, 

 

“Jesus.” John smiled.

 

There was a fondness in Sherlock’s eyes as he grinned, laughing breathily. John could feel Sherlock’s cheeks tighten beneath his fingers. For the first time, there was no reservation, no pretense between them, and each man saw the other for what they truly were. John rubbed the moisture away from Sherlock’s lips in a few broad motions with his thumb, taking a moment to appreciate the way Sherlock’s supple cupid’s bow felt beneath his finger: soft, wet, warm. He could barely contain himself.

 

“What the hell, come on,” John said, still smiling, as he pulled at Sherlock’s collar, leading him towards the garden.


End file.
